


Squidlips

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beach, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beach Holidays, M/M, Sid is a history nerd, no one plays Hockey, some things don't change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 15:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14215851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: When Sid took a spur of the moment beach vacation, he never expected a cabana cafe and a Frisbee to change his life.





	Squidlips

**Author's Note:**

> My most sincere apologies to the actual restaurant called Squidlips in Melbourne, FL, that advertises on a radio station I listen to. I heard their commercial and that was that. It had to be done.

The thing of it is, is…Cole Harbour is cold. Especially in the fucking dead of winter.

In the middle of summer, the temperature might-- _might_ \--climb to 28c. One time once, it did get to 37c, but that was 1912. And Sid just thought 106 years was too long to wait to be hot.

Well and truly, scorchingly, sweat-drippingly hot.

So when Sid, wrapped in a wool blanket in front of the wood-burning stove awaiting yet another Nor’easter to dump snow on him, checked his email and _Groupon_ had super cheap flights from Halifax to Melbourne—all he could envision was lying on an Australian beach. Falling asleep on a sandy towel as the warm sun drove the cold from his bones. He stopped reading and scrolled down to the link.

**Click here to purchase your flight.**

He did. Oh, yes, he did. A week in Australia would cure his end of winter blues.

The thing of it is, is…Melbourne.

In Florida.

He should’ve kept reading past _Melbourne._ He was hacked off at himself; he’d wanted to check out the historical sites. But as he packed, he weighed the two: hotter in Florida. Less to do that would detract from lying on the beach. Sun. The WeatherChannel’s website was predicting a high of almost 32 degrees while he’d be there.

And he was always so. damn. cold. Sid bent then stretched his left knee. It ached from October to May; it ached so often that he couldn’t remember what it’d felt like before he’d shattered it on that motherfucking snowmobile. He tossed the bottle of ibuprofen into his backpack. It turned out that, unlike hockey equipment and game-day suits, swim trunks and t-shirts could be folded tight and stacked into a backpack.

He picked a book from his bedside stack and shoved that in, too. Eleanor Roosevelt’s _Eleven Keys for a More Fulfilling Life._ Sid pointedly ignored his new reading glasses next to the pile as he zipped the backpack and headed out of the house for the Uber waiting to take him to the airport.

Sid dashed back inside, grabbed the glasses, and ran out the front door.

Slipping on black ice and landing on his ass only reaffirmed his desperation to get the hell out of winter.

He ignored the driver, who was still laughing too hard to move.

“You better not charge me because you can’t drive,” Sid threatened, but only sounded so mean as he mumbled _ouch ouch ouch_ rubbing his hip. That was going to leave a huge bruise.

 

~*~

Sid went from the tiny mom & pop motel to the beach. He wanted to see the sun rise over the Atlantic, but mom wouldn’t put the first pot of coffee out until 7:30. He filled his tumbler, threw his towel over his shoulder, and walked across the street to the beach.

He rented an umbrella from the wrinkled old man, who used a power drill to dig into the packed sand and set up the umbrella. He watched as the pre-dawn surf fishers struggled with their catches. He watched as moms and toddlers dotted the beach, digging in the sand until the sun grew too strong. The babies would run away as the waves flowed closer to their toes, and to Sid, the sound of their giggles was the song of angels. And when the families left, foreign tourists would take their places. Languages from all over—Spanish, Scottish, even something that sounded like Russian.

Sid didn’t talk to any of them. He lay on his stomach on the sandy towel and pretended to be engrossed in his book or to be asleep.

Until a Frisbee landed on his back and a giant blocked his sun.

“Sorry, sorry,” the giant said, and when he bent over to retrieve the Frisbee, the sun blinded Sid. “I’m take this—” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder and left. By the time the sun spot disappeared from Sid’s vision, the guy had vanished.

Didn’t matter. Sid wasn’t here for conversation. Just for the sun’s rays that made him boneless as he soaked up enough heat to make the prospect of going back to Cole Harbour bearable.

He shivered at the thought of the snow piling up on his front steps, the new snow tires he’d need next season, and his oil bill that steadily rose until he swore it was as much as his rent.

Instead, Sid closed his eyes and dreamed of a Slavic man, with a deep voice and drowsy eyes, who leaned over and brushed his hands down Sid’s back, crooning softly as he spread suntan lotion and then nudging Sid to turn over. And if the he massaged Sid’s chest, grazed over his abs to dip into the waist of the swim trunks…

Sid woke abruptly from his nap, his erection pushing against the hard sand. He couldn’t do anything except wait it out, for it to go down, so he could stand in polite company.

He fought the urge to fall back asleep, to feel the dream man’s fingers on him again. Instead, he put on his glasses and read until he couldn’t ignore his stomach rumbles.

 

~*~

The thing of it is, is…sometimes, what you need is shoved in front of you. Even if you didn’t know you needed it.

_Squidlips_ was a dive. There was no two ways about it. But the food was good enough to ignore the sand everywhere and the rude waiters.

When Sid walked in, a man in a hot-pink _Squidlips_ t-shirt and clashing board shorts stopped Sid. Flower (according to his name tag) looked Sid up then down. “We don’t serve your kind here.”

Sid just wanted an ice water and dinner. “What? Beach goers?”

“No. Canadians.” Flower laughed until he couldn’t breathe, patting Sid’s chest until he laughed, too. He dragged Sid into the grass-covered hut, sat him at one of the rickety tables, and shoved a menu in his face. “I’m from Quebec. I knew you were Canadian from your pasty face.”

He laughed again at his own joke and stole Sidney’s menu before he could read it. “I’ll order for you, mon chum,” he said as he left, still chuckling. Flower stopped another man, this one in a neon yellow _Squidlips_ shirt, and whispered, pointing to Sid.

Sid opened his book and hoped the new guy wouldn’t come over. But he did. “I apologize for him,” he said in the same soft Quebecois accent as Flower. “He’s just—” he shrugged his shoulders as if to say _what can you do._ “I’m Kris. I own this.”

“Tanger! That’s my table. Find your own Canadian to bother.” Flower placed a glass of water and a plate of fried clams and potato chips in front of Sid. “Best fried clams outside of Canada.”

Without being asked, Flower sat opposite Sid and peppered him with questions until Sid told his new best friend everything. The long, empty winters with nothing but work. Friends who were homebodies now, with wives and babies. And when the surgeon pieced his leg back together, he’d been clear that Sid couldn’t play hockey again. At 18, Sid hadn’t believed him. At 30 and three surgeries later, Sid finally faced the truth. And being on the fringe of hockey as a coach or manager was worse than not being in it at all.

Flower squeezed Sid’s shoulder and wandered away. When he returned, he brought a plate of poutine, with cheese curds and gravy. “Eat this; you’ll feel better,” he said and left again.

Sid speared a fry and eyeballed it. How good could Florida poutine be? When he bit into the fry, crispy outside but soft inside, Sid groaned in delight.

“Told you,” Flower said, grinning from behind the bar.

He was right. It was perfect, the best he’d had since Rimouski in the Q. The curds were fresh, and he tasted the hint of Dijon mustard in the gravy.

He took another bite and another, finishing it before he’d even tried the fried clams. “Flower, who cooked this?” Sid called out, assuming since he was the only one there, they’d forgive his bad manners.

Tanger brought a pitcher of ice water to Sid’s table and topped off his glass. “Everything okay?”

Sid pointed to his empty plate. “This was—good!”

“Write that down, Tanger,” Flower whooped, waving a bar towel over his head. “Such praise. It was good!” He drew the last word out to three syllables.

Sid flipped him off and wasn’t even embarrassed. These people were ridiculous; it felt like the first few minutes with a new team, when they sized you up and judged if you’d fit in. It felt—good. Nice. Sid laughed at himself now; he’d definitely need to up his adjective game.

Tanger and Flower shouted back and forth in Québécois faster than Sid could translate, especially after almost 15 years. In between curses, Tanger would turn to Sid and grin. Eventually, Tanger shut Flower down by sending him into the kitchen, and Tanger apologized for hiring such terrible staff.

“He’s a good waiter, though,” Sid said and then laughed. _Good._

“I’m lucky to have him,” Tanger said, looking over his shoulder to make sure Flower was still in the kitchen. “He’s the reason most people come back. He cooks everything.”

“And I’m your best friend!”

Tanger rolled his eyes as he picked up Sid’s empty plates. “He’s got elephant ears.”

“I heard that, too!”

Tanger’s phone pinged from his pocket, and he put the dishes back on the table. He slid the phone from his back pocket and frowned as he tapped out a response.

“Everything alright?” Sid asked, scraping crumbs from the rough wooden table; he looked away in case Tanger needed privacy.

“My wife. She’s pregnant—” Tanger’s smile grew as he held his phone out to Sid and thumbed through photos. Tanger’s beautiful wife with her growing belly. Their son with his grin that looked so much like his father.

“Her doctor told her to rest as often as she can,” Tanger’s smile faded a little. “But with a 5-year-old, and me here all the time—I can’t help much.”

Flower poked his head through the doorway into the dining area. “Show him the pictures of Alex with Estelle and Scarlett!”

Tanger flipped to a picture of Alex with two little girls. “They’re his. His wife helps Catherine as much as she can, but she’s busy, too. If we lived in Quebec, our parents could help. I guess we’ll figure it out.”

A loud group of tourists invaded _Squidlips_ , making it impossible for Sid to hear or think. He left enough money to cover whatever his bill might be plus a tip. He pushed past the four guys (there were far fewer men than he’d expected, based on their decibel level) and headed back to the motel with his damp towel and book.

One of the voices sounded vaguely familiar, but Sid’s mind was filled with thoughts of Tanger’s family. If only they could be with family.

Exhausted from the sun and the fresh air, Sid fell asleep easier than he had in years.

~*~

The next day he did it all over again. The umbrella, the towel. Trying to read past page three, but the sun and the gentle sound of waves lulling him to sleep. Sid gave in and dozed, but it was Déjà vu all over again when the Frisbee smacked into the back of his head.

“Hey, cut that out—” Sid said, scrambling to his feet and right into the chest of the Frisbee’s owner.

“So sorry. So sorry,” the man said in a thick Russian accent. “Is bad luck!”

Sid sputtered. “Bad luck? _You_ hit me twice in two days.”

“You should pick better place to be,” the Russian said, rubbing the side of Sid’s head where the Frisbee had hit. “You keep get hit.”

“You keep hitting me!” Sid could barely get the words out, between the audacity of the man suggesting it was Sid’s fault and the breadth of his thick shoulders.

“Zhenya! Stop flirting and bring the Frisbee back,” a voice called. “And if you’re going to flirt, at least get a name.”

_Zhenya_ flung the Frisbee toward the voice and yelled in Russian, ending with the word _Sasha_. “Call me Geno. Is easier for Canadian to say, eh?” he grinned and ran off toward Sasha and his friends

Sid laughed at the terrible joke, his heart racing like he’d been the one running on the beach. “I’m—Sidney.”

“Good-bye, Sidney.”

 

~*~

The thing of it is, is…Sid is a person who loves routine. Craves the surety of how each day will go.

Morning coffee at 7:30. The beach. Renting an umbrella and watching with fascination as the man drilled into the sand. Sun. Sand. Seashells. Dinner at _Squidlips_ with his new friends.

And in the middle of it, a _hello_ from Geno.

Each day was good. _Wait._ Amazing. Spectacular. Uplifting. Fulfilling. Better than any day he’d had in a long time.

Each day was—good.

On the sixth day, with his flight scheduled for early the next morning, Sid visited _Squidlips_ for the last time. Flower and Tanger sat with him, and they shared grilled Pompano that Flower had caught that morning surf-fishing.

Sid texted a picture of his meal to his sister, hunkered down in Minnesota in the middle of a snowstorm. “Wish you were here,” he pecked out and hit send.

“Squid, where are you? That’s not your house!”

Sid cringed at the nickname Taylor wouldn’t forget; instead of getting angry, he decided to make her jealous. As they ate, he sent her videos of Tanger and Flower. Told her about the new baby and Catherine’s doctor’s orders. “I wish I could do something to help,” Sid texted her, but that was dumb. He barely knew these people, and he was leaving the next day.

“Buy it,” Taylor said in a video. “Buy it from Tanger and run it. You have a degree in business management, and you’ll still have time for those geeky history courses.”

_Buy it?_

That was stupid.

He had a life in Cole Harbour. Responsibilities. Friends.

But the thing of it is, is…he really didn’t. His life consisted of the house he rented and the job he hated. And his friends were busy with their families.

“Squid, you’re happier than you’ve been since you gave up hockey,” Taylor had said. “Besides, I’ll have someplace to crash on Spring Break.”

She was right. His leg hadn’t bothered him all week, not even the smallest twinge. He’d enjoyed the silence of the beach and the camaraderie of _Squidlips_. Sid rolled his neck and shoulders—the tension knot was gone. He hadn’t done that once this week.

Sid couldn’t think straight. Buy this place? Leave his home? What if this went belly up?

Sid’s phone buzzed. “What do you think, Squid?” Taylor texted. “What’s it even called? I want to look it up online.”

Sid snapped a picture of the placemat: **_Squidlips_ on the Water** and sent it.

Flower laughed at something Tanger said as he pointed toward group of loud Russians who were back.

“What? What did I miss?” Sid asked, trying to figure out who they were pointing to. “What’s going on?”

Flower scraped his chair away from the table. Before he left to greet the newcomers, he waggled his eyebrows at Sid. “The tall one—Evgeni—asked about you many times on Monday when you left. What is his name? Why is he here? It was very sickening and disgusting,” Flower said, rolling his eyes. “And if you play your cards right, I think you could get lucky!”

He didn’t know an Evgeni. Sidney looked over at the four men at the bar. They were all tall. All Russian, judging by their language. 

One of them quarter-turned toward Sid’s table, and Sid recognized Geno. Sid waved, and the man quickly turned away, as if he were embarrassed to be caught.

“See?” With one final brow waggle, Flower was gone to serve the men, bellowing for _Russian vodka! Real vodka, not your American shit._

“Flower’s not lying, Sid,” Tanger said, nodding wisely. “About the man’s interest. About getting laid? That I don’t know.”

Tanger patted Sid’s back and went to the kitchen. Geno had asked about him? No one had done that in a long time, and certainly not a guy as hot as Geno. Sid felt fuzzy and fizzy, like he was drunk, like he was free to do anything, to be anything. 

His phone vibrated on the table.

“ _Squidlips_. _SQUIDlips_ ????? Squid, you *have* to buy it. It’s a sign.”

Sid put his phone on the table and stared at Taylor’s text.

The thing of it is, is…sometimes, great advice comes from where you least expect it. “You must do the thing you think you cannot do,” Eleanor Roosevelt had written in 1960.

“Okay, Sid? You look confused,” Tanger said, sliding a slice of key lime cheesecake in front of Sidney. “Is it that guy? If he’s bothering you, go tell him to fuck off. I’ll go tell him—”

“Tanger,” Sid grabbed his wrist and held him in place. “You want to move back to Quebec, right? What if—what if you could sell _Squidlips_ , like, right now. Well, not right _now,_ but soon.” Sid’s eyes were bright with excitement as he stumbled over his words.

“What are you saying, Sid?” Tanger looked around, like he was searching for hidden cameras. “Did Flower make you do this? It’s not funny…”

“I’ll buy it,” Sid said, pushing a chair away from the table so Tanger could sit. “I have money, and if I don’t have enough, I have really good credit. I can get a loan.” His words came fast, and Sid was certain he wasn’t making any sense. “It’s—it’s perfect. You guys can be with your families, and I get a new home.”

Tanger looked dazed, and Sid’s stomach thunked. Suddenly, he realized how much he wanted this. All of this. The ocean soothing him to sleep at night and waking him in the morning. Tracking sandy footprints through his home. Hanging with Flower and making new friends.

“Why? Why this place?” Tanger asked. He still sounded suspicious, like he expected Flower to appear out of nowhere and smash a shaving-cream pie in his face.

How could Sid tell him about an old nickname that felt like a sign? How a single sentence from a 50-year-old book shook him? How, if Tanger said no, Sid would slog home, back to his empty rental house, and live his empty life until he died.

He was so afraid. Afraid of giving up, giving in. Afraid he’d never have the courage to do this again.

And speaking of that.

“Be right back,” Sid said to Tanger, who’d taken his phone out and was probably texting Catherine.

Sid willed his confidence to stay with him as he strode to the bar. He tapped the shoulder of the man he hoped was Geno. “Hey,” Sid said with no eloquence.

The men turned around. Three stared and one blushed.

“Zhenya, you have a friend.” The greying man with the gap-toothed smile poked Geno’s side.

“Shut up, Sasha,” Geno hissed. When he turned back to Sid, he smiled soft and warm just for Sid. “Sorry for him. He a pain, for sure. I’m not like him.”

Sid took a deep breath, forced the words out before he could swallow them. “I heard you were asking about me, and I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink or share my slice of cheesecake or—y’know, never mind.” He smiled like it didn’t matter, like he wasn’t mortified, and wanted to head back to his table.

“Yes,” Sasha said, gripping Sid’s shoulder. “He does. Since he hit you with Frisbee on Monday, he’s only talk about you.” He pushed Geno out of their circle toward Sid.

“Hi,” Geno’s cheeks were flushed with embarrassment as he extended his hand to Sid. “Nice to meet you,” he said shyly. 

The remnants of Sid’s oceanside dream flashed through his mind. Those hands, moving down his chest, down, down to—

“Good to meet you, I mean, we already met with the Frisbee, and—oh,” Sid babbled when Geno covered Sid’s hand with his. “Do you like cheesecake? I have some—” He pointed to his table, where a second plate and fork sat next to his. It hadn’t been there when he’d left.

“Love cheesecake. _Squidlips_ best cheesecake, for sure.” Geno smiled again, and Sid thought he would do anything to keep seeing those smiles. They were addictive, like salt air, and Florida poutine.

Tanger stopped Sid before he could say something stupid to Geno, like _Marry me._ “Sid, are you sure?” Tanger grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Because Catherine said to hold you down and not let you go until you sign the paperwork.”

“What? For real? That’s—” Sid searched for the right word. “That’s good! That’s incredible. I’ll cancel my flight for tomorrow, and—”

Geno looked confused. “He hold you down, not let go?” To Sid, he sounded almost angry, or maybe, possibly jealous? “I’m not let go, either!” 

Sid looked down; Geno still held Sid’s hand in both of his. “No, I mean, yes. Don’t let go.” Sid led him to the table and nudged the plate toward him. “I’m going to buy _Squidlips_ ,” he said, and he felt like he was riding a wave, unsure how it would end but certain he would love every moment. 

Tanger left them alone, but Flower hollered across the dining room, over the heads of the growing dinner crowd. “Sidney! Is it true? You’re here to stay?” Sid flashed him a thumbs up, and Flower whooped. 

“You move here and buy this?” Geno asked, grinning widely. “I’m just move here, too. Live with Sasha. Terrible roommate. I’m think maybe I’m go back home. But now—I’m think I’m like Florida little bit better.”

The thing of it is, is...Sid thought, as he watched Geno finish off the slice of cheesecake, that he was thinking he might like Florida a little better, too.

**Author's Note:**

> The actual [Squidlips](Squidlipsgrill.com) looks like a gorgeous restaurant and not at all like a dive cabana cafe.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, you'll love [Something Just Like This.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14159238/chapters/32634711) Sid was a gay man, pretending to be a straight man, pretending to be a gay man in love with Geno. And all he truly wanted was to be a gay man in love with Geno. What were they thinking when they decided to pretend they were in love so they could save two baby Pens?


End file.
